Chapter Text
Men were wretched creatures, and kings were the worst of them, Arwen thought, her ears growing increasingly redder as they approached hour three of the tax meeting.
The slick firmness of the plug shifted inside of her, pressing against her oversensitive walls as she adjusted herself discreetly in her chair. She could feel heat radiating up her thighs and down her spine, and thought with indignation about how this was all rather backwards.
Usually she was the more restrained one, and her husband was the one who could be touched off like a flint-spark. That was how it was supposed to work, even-tempered Elf and hot-blooded Man. But for some reason over the past few weeks it had been her who was ablaze.
She had taken to staying in bed on mornings he had to leave early, reading salacious stories while stretching herself open on the thick, pretty glass phallus she liked to fuck him with. No less than four times she had pounced on him the second he emerged from a meeting, dragged him to the nearest room with a lock, and begged him to fuck her thoughts clear out of her head.
One night the previous week she had even coaxed his hand between her thighs as they stood atop the ramparts. It had been an immense thrill looking out over the White City, lit by lamps and twilight stars, her legs trembling violently as he whispered perverse things in her ear to arouse her further. She had to bite her lip to near bloodshed in order not to scream at the sensation of him tormenting a climax out of her in such a public place.
"If the City only knew their Queen loves being treated like a whore. Are you my little whore, Arwen?"
(She was acting like a whore indeed, she had conceded, and he had rewarded her with a grin and his fingers in her mouth, feeding her the taste of herself before his hand went back under her slip.)
"So desperate lately, yearning always to be full or you cannot think. You just need someone to make it all better, is that right, titinwë?"
(She did need it, terribly, and only his cock could make it all better, she had whispered back, knowing the rules of the game. At that Estel's fingers had curled hard into that place inside of her, the one that made her spurt wet and hot into his palm, and he had laughed soft and wicked with his tongue flickering at her ear.)
"Perhaps tomorrow night I send the guards away and fuck your ass open up here. Or perhaps they can stay. Oh, that made you squeeze me so tight."
(Fill me, yes, yes, right– there— she had whisper-whined as he reached the perfect tempo with his fingers to make her eyes roll back in her head.)
"My telestë loves to hear such filthy words with my fingers in her pretty cunt. You are perfect like this, my needy thing. Remember your manners and you can come."
(Please, please, ingaran Elessar– she had gasped, feeling her core tighten and her world shake as his thumb found her clit.)
"Yes, there, I can feel you— let go for me, beloved, I have you—"
As he pulled her over the edge of her orgasm and she shook in his protective embrace, she could have sworn she had seen Gil-Estel wink.
Was this increase in her libido another of the gifts of Men? she had been asking herself. And just like mortality, she was finding it to be terrible, and wonderful, and maddening both ways.
five hours earlier
After they had made love that morning, at first light on the day of the tax meeting, she had dozed off on top of him, snuggled into his neck with his flaccid cock still sheathed inside of her. She blinked back to consciousness — woozy and slightly damp and glowing faintly — and found Estel already awake, stroking her hair and humming.
"Dúlineg," he greeted her, for the second time that day. The way the morning light caught his sex-tossed hair and his lazy, satisfied grin — with those ridiculous dimples! — immediately made her yearn to spend the rest of the day in a clearing full of soft golden grass, rolling around laughing and making love and telling each other things they had never told anyone, just like they had in Lothlórien.
...Except in the Land of Singing Gold they had not been the King and Queen of Gondor, titles that came with a long list of appointments and responsibilities. And besides, their marriage-bed was not very close to any golden forest clearings.
"Mmm," she replied sagely, discreetly wiping her saliva from his neck. He was a gentleman, with over forty years of experience pretending not to notice that she drooled in her sleep.
"Ready?" he asked, taking her hands and squeezing them lightly. She nodded, but when he pulled out of her, tears involuntarily filled her eyes. Then she felt his seed leaking out of her entrance and whined unhappily, clamping her legs shut to keep it inside.
He soothed her, stroking her cheek with his thumb and kissing away her tears, then did something new and perfect — he spread her thighs and carefully worked something inside her, something thick and heavy that dragged smooth and cool along her walls and then stayed in her, lodged just right with how swollen she was from cockwarming him.
She trilled with relief and he pulled her closer, scattering kisses along her forehead.
"Is that better, beloved?"
"Yes, oh–" she squeezed around the new toy, finding it delightfully hard to push out — "yes, it fits just right, where did you get this?"
He did not answer, but she could see in the twitch of his smirk that he was pleased she liked his gift.
"Wear it to the meeting," he said instead, and her stomach swooped at his boldness.
"And why should I do such a thing?"
"Tis the will of the King."
"And what of the will of the Queen?" she demanded, fighting hard to keep her speech measured as his lips came to her ear. Ear torture was never fair play between a Man and an Elf.
"I know her will also," he said. His tongue flicked over the pointed tip, then he caught it between his teeth, suckling and worrying until she was moaning, arousal glowing molten between her thighs. When her voice finally came out, it was more ragged and needy than she perhaps intended.
"Do you, then? Pray you tell it to me."
"I think the Queen would first have her husband breed her nice and deep. Do you think it took this time?"
"Eru-indonen," she said softly. At her earnest, hopeful prayer, his warm, steady hands cupped her stomach and he whispered it back with his eyes devotedly fixed on hers. Eru-indonen. Then they shared an achingly tender series of kisses, nuzzling noses and twining fingers and whispering baby-names to each other.
Then he remembered to continue being villainous.
"Where was I? Aye, the Queen's will. Next, she would have her perfect little cunt plugged to keep every drop of the King's seed inside of her, so that we can make a beautiful baby."
"An heir to the throne?" she half-teased, but he shook his head, suddenly very serious.
"A child. Boy or girl, they will be beloved. I care not for their title."
As she smiled and yet rolled her eyes at his rejection of nobility, his hands wandered to her breasts, squeezing and exploring. She could tell he was thinking about how they might swell and grow heavy for feeding a child, and the thought of it made her cheeks heat. She knew from her brothers that her mother had been deeply attached to her father for all of her pregnancy — at all times snuggled into his arms or draped across his lap, desperate to be touched and kissed and fondled— and she wondered if she too would feel so needy.
When the rough pads of his fingers tweaked her nipples, she mewled, earning a hungry growl.
"Then, even though the King would rather have the Queen in his lap, she would sit at his right hand in this tedious meeting, making a mess all over herself right in front of the wardens... and the accountants... and the Steward..."
She blushed deeply, thinking of Prince Faramir's keen eyes, how he was so attentive to her husband's moods, the way the two laughed together like a pair of young boys, the angle at which his head tilted in curiosity. Surely he would know they were playing an improper game. She wondered with a thrill if it would go to his cock.
"... And from being so full, I am sure she would get so wet... and so eager... that she would think about running off and making herself come... but it would be a grave mistake for her to do that."
His hands drifted down to her hips, firm and possessive in that delicious way, and she had the thought yet again that leaving their bed today seemed a fool's errand when they were both more than prepared for another round or three of lovemaking. And they had so many excellent games. Perhaps the princess of Imladris would start with a long, hard ride on her loyal knight's face, clutching the headboard with one hand and raking through his sweaty hair with the other, teaching him a much-needed lesson about the importance of fealty and devotion—
She surfaced from her reverie to find him looking at her expectantly.
"And why would it be a– mistake?" Her voice jumped half an octave higher as he suckled at one nipple, then lightly nipped the other, sending more spikes of pleasure to her core.
He smiled dangerously, a threat plain in his voice.
"Because if she does, the King will turn her ass so pink that she will not be able to sit down properly for a week."
She raised her eyebrows impassively, but he was exactly right. It was what she wanted, and worse he knew it was what she wanted. It was never any use feigning propriety with him; he had been a terrible enabler of mischief from the very beginning.
"Will he, now?" she asked, a challenge in her voice. Perhaps by then she was taking a bit of a haughty attitude with him, one that could prove very dangerous when he was in certain moods. Perhaps she had been daydreaming about the sharp, perfect pain of his palm meeting her ass as she panted and writhed and thanked him and called him ingaran Elessar again.
(It had been needlessly wicked of him to pick a King-name that was a direct reference to prophecy and felt so good in her mouth.)
"Hold me true to this, or nothing," he said seriously, tapping the ring on his forefinger — words he had also said before all of Arda on their wedding day. The vows he had written, the oath he had taken. Even when he teased her he was still a hopeless romantic. It was really quite impressive, when it was not actively harming her chances of making it through a meeting without losing at his evil game.
To her dismay and delight, he made things even harder at the eleventh hour. On their way out the door, prim and proper in their crowns and finery, looking now the King and Queen of the Reunited Kingdoms of Gondor and Arnor and not two wild-haired Elf-children naked in a river, he accosted her in the front hallway, pushing her against the wall and kissing her like a thing starved.
The kiss had lingered, and lingered, and lingered, and then he kissed a line down her neck to the collar of her gown and gave her what she knew would be a perfectly faint love-bite, easily concealed with her hair and just enough to only draw the eye of the extremely observant. Then, just as she started growing light-headed from his cock hardening against her hip and his tongue making promises against her skin, he rucked up her dress and reached to feel for the base of the plug. Once he was sure it was there, he hooked a finger into the waistband of her underclothes and yanked them down roughly.
"These stay off," he ordered in a brusque, hungry growl that made her walls clench. "I want to see what a mess you make."